It was 4:25 am. He put on jeans and a sweatshirt, went downstairs. Might
as well get coffee, he could stretch that for an hour or two, until it was a reasonable
time to get dressed for real.
He opened the door. She was sitting on the stoop, on the next to the top
step, leaning against the rail.
“I’m sorry, I am so sorry, I couldn’t sleep. I was so lonely, I am so
lonely, so sad. I … I … I came here. I’m sorry. I was going to leave as soon as
it got light. Before you got up. You weren’t supposed to see me. I wanted to be
someplace I didn’t feel hated.”
He sat down, put an arm around her shoulders so she could rest against
him. She was skinny, skinnier than he’d ever seen her. Every time her life wrecked,
she lost weight. She probably weighed less than his dog.
“Are you hungry?”
She shook her head. “I don’t remember hungry. I’ll leave.”
“I’m sorry for leaving you. Stay.
At least until daybreak.”
“I understand. I do. I want to
leave me, too. Here.” She opened her purse, pulled out a magazine. “Here. It is safer for me if I don’t have
that.”
He held the magazine. One
chamber was empty. Which meant, maybe, that she still had a bullet in the
gun. He didn’t want to ask, didn’t want
to know.
They sat on the stoop and
watched the stars cede their light to the sun.
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